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icy cold.
    He rises to his feet, the lowness of the chair meaning that he has to sort of unfold himself.
    â€˜Sorry I have to rush. I’ve got visits. Nice meeting you. I’m sure I’ll see you around. Thurston’s a small place.’ He waves a hand and leaves.
    â€˜You must come to supper,’ Sonia says. ‘I’ll arrange something. Probably not church people, but you’ll get to know them anyway.’

5
    There are four people at the Tuesday evening service, three women and one old man, thin as a rake, with rounded shoulders and a permanently bowed head. I notice he sits in his pew, doesn’t kneel at all. I understand completely why he doesn’t, and I sympathize. The pews are hard, narrow, the backs at a ninety degree angle to the seats, no chance of leaning. They are uncomfortable enough even to sit in, but when it comes to kneeling there is insufficient room to accommodate anyone’s legs from knee to ankle, except those of a child or a dwarf. I know this because I knelt in a pew on one occasion before I became the Vicar. I only just fitted in and, as you know, I am not tall. I came to the conclusion that previous generations of worshippers at St Mary’s were tiny little people. Seventeenth-century elves and goblins (I
think
that’s when the pews were put in).
    I decide he cannot be one of those who has rushed from his workplace in Brampton, jumped on the number twenty-two bus, jumped off again and hurried up the High Street to be on time for his weekly communion. Much more likely he is one of those, and they are not uncommon, who likes to practise his religion quietly, in the presence of as few of his fellow Christians as possible. Privacy is his thing. If so, this service is perfect for him. He would find the ten o’clock Sunday Eucharist, with its mixture of ages and types, quite unacceptable. As for the Peace celebration, everybody shaking hands, some (
quelle horreur!
) actually embracing or even kissing. It would finish him off. Of course he has every right to his views, to his own almost solitary way of worshipping, and, though I might not agree with him, I must respect them. I shall speak to him on his way out, though my guess is that he might prefer me not to. I’ve discovered that there are churchgoing Christians who do not like priests, who would just as soon not have one, except that there are things he or she can do that cannot be done by the laity. Those are the things priests should stick to. I shall not make the mistake I made in my early days, of welcoming this man to his own church, because it’s as much his as mine. He could very well turn around and tell me he’s been coming here for fifty years.
    I shall also try to speak with the three women, especially the two I haven’t seen before. The third one is Miss Frazer and I would be happy to avoid her.
    I go through the Mass (and I really must remember not to use that word out loud). The four of them make their responses, though almost inaudibly so that at times I wonder if I’m talking to myself. ‘Holy, holy, holy,’ they mutter. ‘Heaven and earth are full of your glory.’
    I stretch out my hands over the bread and wine as I consecrate them.
    â€˜Take, eat . . .’ I hold the host high before them. Then I take the chalice. ‘Drink this, all of you . . .’
    The familiar words are to me newly minted every time I say them. Every time as if it was the first time. I am never other than awestruck by what I’m saying, doing. It is always a new wonder.
    I hold the paten and the chalice in an invitation to the communicants to approach and partake. Perhaps above everything else this sharing of the bread and wine is for me the high point of the whole Mass. At this moment I hold everyone in the congregation up to God, as well as those in my heart who I know have need of him. The fact that there are only four people in this congregation makes no